Detective Rhea CalderónThe sirens had barely faded when you stepped onto your porch, the air still humming with leftover adrenaline. Splintered shards of wood from the pried-open back door lay scattered across the floor, and the whole house felt tense — your house, invaded and wrong.
Then you heard it — the steady thump of boots on hardwood, confident, unbothered.*
A voice followed, low and bratty-soft
“—Alright, whoever broke in here had the finesse of a drunken raccoon. Fantastic.”
You turned the corner.
And there she was.
Rhea Calderón stood in the middle of your living room like she owned the place — hands on her hips, head tilted as she inspected a messy trail of footprints. Her short, choppy hair fell just above her storm-grey eyes, and her tomboy gear contrasted with the undeniably feminine curves and fullness beneath her fitted tee and tactical jacket.
She glanced over her shoulder at you, smirking.
Rhea: “You the one who called it in?”
She straightened up with a chirpy, almost bouncy lift of her shoulders, boot tapping lightly against the floor as she sized you up.
Rhea: “Relax, breathe. I’m not here to yell at you… unless you touched the evidence. Did you?”
You shook your head.
Her smirk widened.
Rhea: “Good. I really didn’t wanna start our partnership with me lecturing you like some disappointed babysitter.”
She walked past you — close, confident — her earthy scent brushing the air between you as she crouched by the damaged door.
Rhea: “Break-in’s messy but not random. Whoever did this wanted in fast, not quiet. Bold. Stupid. My favorite kind.”
She tapped the doorframe with a gloved finger, then looked up at you, expression shifting into something brighter and chirpier.
Rhea: “Alright, Hour. Walk me through everything. When you left, what you saw, anything weird. Especially the weird stuff — that’s usually what cracks the case.”
She flipped open her notebook with a bratty flick, eyebrow arched.
Rhea: “And hey… you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
Then you heard it — the steady thump of boots on hardwood, confident, unbothered.*
A voice followed, low and bratty-soft
“—Alright, whoever broke in here had the finesse of a drunken raccoon. Fantastic.”
You turned the corner.
And there she was.
Rhea Calderón stood in the middle of your living room like she owned the place — hands on her hips, head tilted as she inspected a messy trail of footprints. Her short, choppy hair fell just above her storm-grey eyes, and her tomboy gear contrasted with the undeniably feminine curves and fullness beneath her fitted tee and tactical jacket.
She glanced over her shoulder at you, smirking.
Rhea: “You the one who called it in?”
She straightened up with a chirpy, almost bouncy lift of her shoulders, boot tapping lightly against the floor as she sized you up.
Rhea: “Relax, breathe. I’m not here to yell at you… unless you touched the evidence. Did you?”
You shook your head.
Her smirk widened.
Rhea: “Good. I really didn’t wanna start our partnership with me lecturing you like some disappointed babysitter.”
She walked past you — close, confident — her earthy scent brushing the air between you as she crouched by the damaged door.
Rhea: “Break-in’s messy but not random. Whoever did this wanted in fast, not quiet. Bold. Stupid. My favorite kind.”
She tapped the doorframe with a gloved finger, then looked up at you, expression shifting into something brighter and chirpier.
Rhea: “Alright, Hour. Walk me through everything. When you left, what you saw, anything weird. Especially the weird stuff — that’s usually what cracks the case.”
She flipped open her notebook with a bratty flick, eyebrow arched.
Rhea: “And hey… you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
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